There's Gotta Be Only One Girl Like That
by LuckyNumber13Girl
Summary: Detective-in-high-tops Sammie Miller never thought she'd see Justin Bieber again when he ran off and got famous. Heartbroken, right? Wrong. Sammie's not your average girl, and frankly, could care less. So what happens when The Biebs falls hard for her?


Just another concert.

Just another day.

I stand onstage and sing, waiting for it all to be over, and then it is.

It falls into a real stupid routine, and I love it and hate it at the same time.

I want to be normal. But you can't, not when you're Justin Bieber.

I have to find my one less lonely girl. I hate it; it's so shallow and there's so many I disappoint.

As I walk through the crowded audience, ignoring the clawing hands, I trip and fall almost on top of a girl in jeans and high tops.

"Sorry." I say.

"It's okay." The girl says, barely looking up. This is new.

Her hair is in a high ponytail, and she has bangs. And she's wearing a t-shirt.

We barely make eyes contact for a second, but then a tidal wave of hazy memories hit me with full force.

It's all fuzzy, but it's like a flashback.

I remember this girl, but younger. I'm in social studies class in seventh grade, and she's sitting next to me. We were supposed to be studying the U.S. government, but she's managed to get the teacher sidetracked onto King Henry the Eighth and all of his relatives. Her hand is in the air over and over, and then the bell finally rings.

I remember her really well, but in bits and pieces.

I remember her nose was always in Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, and other mystery books, but she seemed to always be reading Sammy Keyes. I remember her blondish brown hair, always in a ponytail, but I remember the high tops most of all.

I remember playing hockey with Ryan and my other friends, all in our makeshift gear. We're about eight or nine. I remember her bouncing up to us in high tops, her hair in pigtails instead of a ponytail, asking if she can play too.

"No. Girls _can't _play." Ryan insists.

She plays anyways, and beats us all.

I remember seeing her in the halls. I remember her always looking at the ground, always too shy to talk to me directly until seventh grade.

She was one of my best friends then. And in eighth grade, too.

Then I got famous.

And I forgot about her.

I remember a lot of smaller, fuzzier memories too. Of kids teasing, her getting in trouble and solving police crimes and such, and then I'm standing right back where I was and not a second of time has passed.

But I can't remember her name.

I keep walking, I pick the girl, and eventually the concert is over.

I try to forget about the girl, and then I hear pounding on the door.

It's not the usual, oh my gosh it's Justin Bieber I have to get in there pounding, it's open up right this second this is important pounding.

I open the door, and the girl is standing there with my dog tags.

She hands them to me.

"You dropped these." She says.

Then she turns to leave.

"Wait! Do I know you?"

She stiffens up.

"What are the odds of that?" she asks.

"I'm pretty sure I know you." I say. "What's your name?"

"Sammie Miller." She mutters.

"I know you, Sammie. I think we grew up together."

"It must have been somebody different." She says, then makes a run for it.

Kenny grabs her arm, thinking she's a rabid fangirl.

She doesn't struggle, she just rolls her eyes.

"Can I go home? Please?"

"Wait!" I say, and Kenny drops her arm.

I pull her back into my dressing room and shut the door.

"You're that girl who caught the kid trying to burn down Brightport."

"So?"

"I know you. We grew up together, you were one of my best friends."

"Was. Then you got famous and ignored me for two years."

"I'm sorry, Sammie."

I'm cooking up a plan in my head. A crazy plan.

"Whatever."

"Look. Um, you know how I get attacked by rabid fangirls every minute of my life? Well, they take stuff a lot, and one time a hater tried to burn down the place I was performing."

"Yeah?"

"Well, a detective might be-"

"There is no way I'm working for you."

"C'mon, please?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Sammie, seriously. You're underage and if you say yes, you'll be making more money than most working adults with a college degree."

Sammie sighs.

"Alright. But you're my client, and you're not in charge of me."

It's my turn to roll my eyes, but I say, "Sure, whatever."

I still don't want to admit to myself the real reason I want to keep Sammie in my line of vision, but I can't deny it for long.


End file.
